


Pastel Paints

by HarryPotterIsBi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Amnesiac Harry Potter, Artist Harry Potter, Blood and Violence, Crime Fighting, Criminal Draco Malfoy, Depressing, Emotional Hurt, Enemies to Lovers, Evil Author Day, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Open to Interpretation, Temporary Amnesia, Tired Harry Potter, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wizarding World (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarryPotterIsBi/pseuds/HarryPotterIsBi
Summary: The biting, cool metal of the dagger seems to pierce against the soft skin of Harry’s palms, crimson staining the silver. Harry almost laughed too, when Draco’s grip on him grew slack. Harry hated him. Oh, he loathed him. The bond they shared over something as horrid as two boys locked in a dark closet, primary-coloured boards flashing against the windows.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 13





	Pastel Paints

**Author's Note:**

> None of this makes any sense, I'm sorry

The day he first appeared. He’s standing on shaky legs, looking around at a place he has no memory of. He’s not even sure of his own name, words intermittently coming and going through jumbled spaces of his mind. He’s sure it’s not any of them. All he can understand is his goal. A predestined fate. Almost as though he’s automated.

_Creativity._

It’s the first, but not the last thing he thinks of. 

* * *

He isn’t home that day. That’s what he had decided upon, as a name. He’s titled Harry now. The demon in his house is Draco, apparently. He had walked in, one day, covered in pastel paints and carrying newly purchased oil paints, when his gaze fell upon the letters spelled out in bloodstains. 

Harry frowned at the sight before him. He had cleaned up the blood last week. When Draco had ripped his sketchbook, that is. This was different. He couldn’t place it, but something felt tense about the atmosphere.

He drew back at the sound of footsteps descending down the stairs. His boots clicked against the wooden floor, marking his presence in the house.

 _He was tall_ , was his first observation. Other than the obvious. 

Harry inhaled sharply, green eyes scanning the man in front of him.

The blonde man with the grey eyes only sneered, dagger in hand stained crimson with blood. _Oh, so that’s where everyone else had gone_ , he registered vaguely. 

When Harry drops the shopping bag, the man’s eyes flicker to it. He seems unsure, as though trying to understand where Harry fits in with the scenario. His face is sharp, angled. He looks almost inhuman. Harry breaths out softly, nails biting into the palms of his hands. He didn’t understand what was happening, but then again, he never had. 

“Who are you?” he finally huffs out, bravely taking a step forward. Harry’s lips pressed together, boots clicking against the floor once again. _Was this a repeat of last year? Maybe._

He didn’t see the blade coming until it was halfway through his abdomen. 

* * *

They had never seen eye-to-eye, and they probably never would. At least the others had attempted to work with him, staying out of his way until needed. But Draco. He never shut up. He taunted Harry, as though he were a child. It made Harry’s blood boil. 

Two opposites, order and art, equals who refused to see through to a compromise. 

Occasionally, without one eye. If the number of times Harry’s pencil had ended up in Draco’s eye socket was anything worth considering.

Harry hated him. Oh, he loathed him. But if he was being truly honest? What they had could almost be seen as respect. The bond they shared over something as horrid as two boys locked in a dark closet, primary-coloured boards flashing against the windows.

* * *

It’s during the summer, when they kiss for the first time. Harry found it odd. Strange, because he enjoyed it, but his feelings for Draco had never wavered throughout the course of their time together. Hatred to mutual respect. Perhaps even admiration. Harry’s lips curled into a wry smile at the thought.

They had been fighting, like always. It was nearing midnight, he knew this. Draco always came into his workshop at this hour, when he loved to tell Harry everything he was doing wrong with his experiments. One night, Harry had dared to trace lines just above the collar of his raincoat with a silver knife. 

It’s not romantic, not really. Certainly nothing like the movies Harry used to watch at night, when he found himself unable to sleep. He had never pictured himself in that kind of situation, anyways. Perhaps it’s fitting.

Harry’s stronger than he looks. Strong enough to have a shaky grip, and put up a decent struggle against an assault. The biting, cool metal of the dagger seems to pierce against the soft skin of Harry’s palms, crimson staining the silver. Draco’s trying his hardest, too. He’s getting closer. And closer. Harry’s backed up into a table, with Draco pressed up against him. His eyes shut close, feet feeling immeasurably cold against the damp floor of the basement. _He doesn’t want to die this way._ It’s with this thought, that he gets an idea.

_A distraction._

_Distract him._

It certainly did its job, when he reaches up and drags the collar of Draco’s coat down to meet his lips. Harry almost laughed too, when Draco’s grip on him grew slack. Loose enough for him to make his escape, plunging the knife in his chest before breaking away. He was gone by the time Draco was coughing up blood.

* * *

That was all it had been at first. He must be crazy, Harry knows this. When a madman is making out with you during a fight, no one thinks anything of it. Until he’s kissing back.

It’s nearly been a year since the first time. It’s happened again after that, but the fight had never stalled. Hesitated.

When Harry’s dagger clatters to the ground, his hands are shaking. It was the first time he had dared to drop his weapon. 

It had just…. _fallen._

For a long moment, there’s silence. The only thing that could be heard was heavy breathing, as time seemed to stand still. 

He waited, dizzily pushed against the kitchen counter. He waited for the sting of the blade to come. But it never did. A hand fell on his waist. Sudden enough to make him flinch.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos would be much appreciated!


End file.
